“What other?” said Clare in some amazement. Except the Rector and the Doctor there was no gentleman in Arden of whom Jeanie could have spoken, and neither of them could be so described—a grand, dark, hard man! Her heart began to flutter painfully, and no one answered her question. Perhaps it was because there was a rustle and movement outside, and Sarah appeared on the threshold. “Mrs. Pimpernel’s acoming, Miss Clare, with her daughter and the gentlemen,” said Old Sarah. “T’ou’d lady’s awful pushing, and you’re not one as likes that sort; and Mrs. Murray, it’s best for you and for me as Jeanie should go upstairs.”
“I will go upstairs too,” said Clare, hurriedly; and she rose and went hastily up the narrow staircase, forgetting that any invitation was necessary. But Mrs. Murray did not forget. She made a little ceremonious speech to the unceremonious young lady of the manor. “It’s a poor place,” she said, “but such as it is Miss Arden is very welcome.” Clare, however, was far too deeply convinced of her own importance to see any reproof in these words.
“Come and sit here,” said Jeanie, softly, stealing a little hand, which was like a child’s, into Clare’s. “I see all the folk passing from this window. Granny says no to do it; but I say what harm? And there he is, that dark man. I saw him with you, and once since then, and he spoke soft and kind; but oh, Miss Arden, I’m feared for that man! You canna see into his heart; whiles I think, has he a heart at all? And what does he want coming here?”
Clare’s curiosity, or rather her anxiety, was great. She allowed herself to be drawn to the lattice window, which stood half open, all embowered in honeysuckle. She kept Jeanie’s soft hand in hers with a sense of clinging to it, as if there was help in its soft childlike pressure. The new-comers were walking down the village street, filling the breadth of the road—Mrs. Pimpernel full-blown and gorgeous as usual; her pretty daughter half smothered in her finery; at one hand the young curate, Mr. Denbigh, whose head was supposed to be turned by croquet and Alice; and on the other– Clare said to herself she had known it all along. She had divined it from the first moment when Jeanie spoke. She stood leaning one arm against the half-opened window, and with the other hand holding Jeanie fast. Yes, of course, it was he; she had known it all along. The scene looked so familiar to her that she seemed to have seen it somewhere in a picture ages ago. Pretty Alice Pimpernel, blushing, and saying two words by intervals now and then—“Oh, no, Mr. Arden,” and “Oh, yes, Mr. Arden” (was not that the sort of conversation Alice Pimpernel kept up? somebody, she could not remember who, had once told Clare)—and stooping over her, doing his best to entertain her, smiling that smile she knew so well– Clare grasped Jeanie’s hand so hard that it hurt the girl, who gave a half-suppressed cry; and then the young Princess of Arden dropped suddenly into the nearest chair. Her heart seemed to sink somewhere into unimaginable depths. It was no surprise to her. She had known it all along. And yet–
Jeanie stood by her, unaware of what was passing through her companion’s mind; or was she somehow aware, though Clare said not a word? “He thinks little, little of her he’s speaking to,” said Jeanie, softly. “He thinks nothing of her. If it was me, I would not let a man speak to me and look at me like that, and scorn me, Miss Arden. They’re rich and grand, but he thinks he’s better than them–”
“And he is better than them,” said Clare, under her breath. “He is an Arden. Better than them! They are nobody. You are better. Hush! you don’t understand–”
And she held the little hand clasped tight, and almost leaned upon Jeanie, not knowing it. The party came nearer; their voices became audible from the window, and it annoyed Clare to hear sounds behind her, Mrs. Murray moving about, which prevented her hearing what was said. She uttered an imperative “Hush!” and turned round, half angrily, to command silence; but still she could hear nothing but the well-accustomed tones—the voice she knew so well. “You must see her. She is the prettiest creature,” she heard him say just as they passed into the room below; and then Clare loosed Jeanie’s hand, and looked at her with a new inspiration. It was not for Alice Pimpernel; it was for Jeanie this visit was made.
“You pretended to be afraid of him when you met him with me,” she said sharply, and then turned to the grandmother. “She fainted or something at the sight of him, and now he brings people to make a show of her. How is this?” she cried. “Do you know that this village is mine, and I have the charge of it? I must know what it means. You must explain this to me.”
“Miss Arden,” said Mrs. Murray, “you mistake me and mine, I canna tell why. I have lived sixty years in this world, and nobody has bidden me humble myself as you have done—though it is justice upon me, but you know nothing of that. I owe ye no explanation. I am not of your parish nor in your charge; but out of courtesy, and because of something ye never heard of, I’ll satisfy you this time. The man is nothing to her nor to me. He was like a man that once we knew, as I told you. But he came here three days ago, and I was glad, for the poor bairn saw it was another face and another voice, and got over her fear. He’s clever and soft-spoken, as ye ken; but he should never speak to my Jeanie more, never with my will. That is all I have to say. You should not be here, spying on your kinsman, you that’s such a proud lady. You should not watch at that window, nor catch his words unawares. I would do more for you than for anybody in the world that’s not my ain–”
“Why do you talk such nonsense to me,” cried Clare, angrily. “Am I such a fool as to be deceived by it? What reason have you to care for me? I thought you were proud and gave yourself airs, but I did not think you would make false pretences like this. Why should you care for me–”
“I canna tell ye why, and ye will never ken,” said Mrs. Murray with a sigh, “though I would give my life for you or your brother, if that would serve you. But you say well, I have no right to make pretences. You’re young and I’m old, Miss Arden, and when your kinsman is below you should not be watching him here.”
“I am not watching him,” said Clare; and she sat with an obstinate stateliness by the window, her face deeply flushed, her heart beating high. It was not her fault. She would not have stolen here into this coign of ’vantage had she thought of Arthur. It was but to avoid the Pimpernels, not to watch him. But, even had she known he was coming, would it not have been better in any case to keep out of his way? Had not Edgar left home on purpose to send him away from Arden?—Edgar, whose fault it was, who had thus thrown his cousin into the arms of the Pimpernels, into the way of temptation. Clare was unreasonable, as was natural. She forgot—as it is so easy to forget—that Arthur Arden was much older than her brother, far more experienced, a man doubly learned in the ways of the world. The first thing that occurred to her had been to suspect poor little Jeanie, to blame Mrs. Murray; and now her imagination fell upon Edgar, putting all the responsibility on his shoulders. He had sent his cousin away. It was a new beginning which poor Arthur was making—an attempt, poor fellow, at that pure domestic life which had never been within his reach before. And Edgar, who had all the lands and all the prosperity, had refused to this other Arden even the poor shelter of his roof—the chance of learning to love something that was better than his past had been. And thus he had been thrown back upon the Pimpernels. To look at these good people in the mirror of Clare’s fancy, one would have supposed they were everything that was disorderly and improper, instead of being the most respectable of households, correct in every possible point, and domestic to a degree only possible to a British nature with commercial associations. Clare sat and listened to the hum of voices down-stairs with the strangest emotion. What was he doing there? What had he come for? Why was he making himself the attendant of Alice Pimpernel? He had no money, and her father was rich—was he, thwarted in his affections, intent upon marrying and indemnifying himself by securing money at least? All these thoughts passed through Clare’s mind with the rapidity of lightning. Very different would have been her brother’s thoughts, even of Arthur Arden; but Clare’s mind was more sophisticated than Edgar’s, and leapt in a moment at this vulgar danger, which to her felt so real. And, as we have said, the idea of marrying for money did not in itself revolt her. If he could not secure the woman he loved, and her fortune, what could he do but at least attempt to secure another fortune?—something he could live on, and which would give him something to live for. Alice Pimpernel! How much would she have? Clare wondered,